Lavengro by George Borrow (read me a book txt) 📕

“Good,” said I; “and this forge and tent, what do they look like?”

“Like the forge and tent of a wandering Zigan; I have seen the like in Italy.”

“Good,” said I; “they belong to me.”

“Are you, then, a Gypsy?” said the man in black.

“What else should I be?”

“But you seem to have been acquainted with various individuals with whom I have likewise had acquaintance; and you have even alluded to matters, and even words, which have passed between me and them.”

“Do you know how Gypsies live?” said I.

“By hammering old iron, I believe, and telling fortunes.”

“Well,” said I, “there’s my forge, and yonder is some iron, though not old, and by your own confession I am a soothsayer.”

“But how did you come by your knowledge?”

“Oh,” said I, “if you want me to reveal the secrets of my trade, I have, of course, nothing further to say. Go to the scarlet dyer, and ask him how he dyes cloth.”

“Why scarlet?” said the man in black. “Is it because Gypsies blush like scarlet.”

“Gypsies never blush,” said I; “but Gypsies’ cloaks are scarlet.”

“I should almost take you for a Gypsy,” said the man in black, “but for⁠—”

“For what?” said I.

“But for that same lesson in Armenian, and your general knowledge of languages; as for your manners and appearance I will say nothing,” said the man in black, with a titter.

“And why should not a Gypsy possess a knowledge of languages?” said I.

“Because the Gypsy race is perfectly illiterate,” said the man in black; “they are possessed, it is true, of a knavish acuteness; and are particularly noted for giving subtle and evasive answers⁠—and in your answers, I confess, you remind me of them; but that one of the race should acquire a learned language like the Armenian, and have a general knowledge of literature, is a thing che io non credo afatto.”209

“What do you take me for?” said I.

“Why,” said the man in black, “I should consider you to be a philologist, who, for some purpose, has taken up a Gypsy life; but I confess to you that your way of answering questions is far too acute for a philologist.”

“And why should not a philologist be able to answer questions acutely?” said I.

“Because the philological race is the most stupid under Heaven,” said the man in black; “they are possessed, it is true, of a certain faculty for picking up words, and a memory for retaining them; but that any one of the sect should be able to give a rational answer, to say nothing of an acute one, on any subject⁠—even though the subject were philology⁠—is a thing of which I have no idea.”

“But you found me giving a lesson in Armenian to this handmaid?”

“I believe I did,” said the man in black.

“And you heard me give what you are disposed to call acute answers to the questions you asked me?”

“I believe I did,” said the man in black.

“And would anyone but a philologist think of giving a lesson in Armenian to a handmaid in a dingle?”

“I should think not,” said the man in black.

“Well, then, don’t you see that it is possible for a philologist to give not only a rational, but an acute answer?”

“I really don’t know,” said the man in black.

“What’s the matter with you?” said I.

“Merely puzzled,” said the man in black.

“Puzzled?”

“Yes.”

“Really puzzled?”

“Yes.”

“Remain so.”

“Well,” said the man in black, rising, “puzzled or not, I will no longer tresspass upon your and this young lady’s retirement; only allow me, before I go, to apologise for my intrusion.”

“No apology is necessary,” said I; “will you please to take anything before you go? I think this young lady, at my request, would contrive to make you a cup of tea.”

“Tea!” said the man in black⁠—“he! he! I don’t drink tea; I don’t like it⁠—if, indeed, you had,” and here he stopped.

“There’s nothing like gin and water, is there?” said I, “but I am sorry to say I have none.”

“Gin and water,” said the man in black, “how do you know that I am fond of gin and water?”

“Did I not see you drinking some at the public-house?”

“You did,” said the man in black, “and I remember, that when I called for some, you repeated my words⁠—permit me to ask, is gin and water an unusual drink in England?”

“It is not usually drunk cold, and with a lump of sugar,” said I.

“And did you know who I was by my calling for it so?”

“Gypsies have various ways of obtaining information,” said I.

“With all your knowledge,” said the man in black, “you do not appear to have known that I was coming to visit you.”

“Gypsies do not pretend to know anything which relates to themselves,” said I; “but I advise you, if you ever come again, to come openly.”

“Have I your permission to come again?” said the man in black.

“Come when you please; this dingle is as free for you as me.”

“I will visit you again,” said the man in black⁠—“till then, addio.”210

“Belle,” said I, after the man in black had departed, “we did not treat that man very hospitably; he left us without having eaten or drunk at our expense.”

“You offered him some tea,” said Belle, “which, as it is mine, I should have grudged him, for I like him not.”

“Our liking or disliking him had nothing to do with the matter, he was our visitor and ought not to have been permitted to depart dry; living as we do in this desert, we ought always to be prepared to administer to the wants of our visitors. Belle, do you know where to procure any good Hollands?”

“I think I do,” said Belle, “but⁠—”

“I will have no ‘buts.’ Belle, I expect that with as little delay as possible, you procure, at my expense, the best Hollands you can find.”

Time passed on, and Belle and I lived in the dingle; when I say lived, the reader must not